The Kiss Murder (25 page)
So Hüseyin hadn’t returned from his trip to the office. Ali had called me just as I left. I didn’t know what he said, but the fact that he called surely meant the envelope had been delivered. Traffic on the way to Maslak could be heavy, thanks to the day-trippers heading to Belgrade Forest and the beach in Kilyos, but Hüseyin had left at ten, and should have avoided the worst of it. Maybe he was so tired from the previous night he’d pulled over for a nap.
“Just come out and say it: that delivery is going to cost me a fortune.”
“That’s not what I meant, sir. You’ll only pay what the meter says. It’s not like you’re a stranger. I was just letting you know how bad traffic must be.”
“Yes,” I said. My one-word reply meant it was time to shut up again. He understood, and did so.
We’d nearly arrived in any case. I paid him and got out.
As I entered the apartment building, someone else was coming down the stairs. I don’t normally look at strangers, preferring to maintain a certain aloofness, but something told me to look up, so I did. I suppose what really made me look closely was the dark suit. I mean, who wears a suit on a hot Sunday afternoon? As we passed each other on the stairs I recognized him: It was the man with the high-pitched voice who’d been standing guard in Sabiha Hanım’s flat. A chill ran up my spine. He was either a Mafioso type or one of Süreyya Eronat’s men. He recognized me as well, and spun around on his heel as he reached the landing, taking a long look at me. On his right cheekbone was a huge bandage. His colored eyes flickered coldly. He had the look of a natural-born killer.
We exchanged glances for a split second, then he quickly exited the apartment building. I considered chasing after him. If he wasn’t armed, I could catch and interrogate him. In other words, despite my vows of the previous night, I was prepared to dive right back into this.
Either he wasn’t after me or he’d decided that this wasn’t the place to dispose of me. And if he wasn’t after me, he must have come for the lady journalist. One thing was clear, they now knew exactly where I was.
I raced up to the third floor. I’d expected an open door, even a body inside, but the door to the flat was firmly shut.
I rang the bell. Shortly afterward, the door swung open. More accurately, the head of the journalist lady poked out from the partly opened door. She was one of those rare people who look really bad in light blue. In her blouse of that color, she looked like a corpse.
“Merhaba,”
I greeted her. “I’d like to speak to you, if you have a moment.”
I greeted her. “I’d like to speak to you, if you have a moment.”
She was clearly displeased to see me. You’d have thought that the woman who’d hit on me, who’d pinched and prodded me, was a distant relation of hers. She looked tense.
“I’m not really free. I have a guest.”
Her hair was in disarray. Had I caught her at a delicate moment? Considering how sex-mad she had been the previous day, it was highly likely she’d have resumed the hunt once she woke up sober and alone.
“It won’t take long. Please, it’s very important,” I pleaded.
She looked surprised. I realized that she wasn’t listening to me. She was barely aware of my presence at all.
“All right, then, but I really am busy at the moment. I’m discussing something urgent with a friend,” she said.
My insistence must have done the trick. She stepped aside to let me in.
Occupying my spot of the previous day was none other than—surprise—that pansy of a reporter, Ahmet. With his two-day stubble, messy hair, and swollen eyes he looked to be well over forty. It was hard to believe that a nancy boy like him could be up to anything erotic with the journalist, but you can’t underestimate the powers of a driven woman. Bedding a man like Ahmet was a test of wills some couldn’t resist.
He shook my hand without rising from his seat. His hand was greasy and moist. I found him repulsive, and knew no one who felt otherwise, but there’s no telling what becomes desirable once hormones reach a certain level. My presence clearly disturbed him.
Moving closer to the journalist, I asked, “Can we speak in private?”
“Certainly, that’d be better. Let’s go to the kitchen,” she agreed, preparing to lead the way. Her phone rang before she’d advanced two steps. She apologized, returning to the living room to answer it.
In rapid succession, she said hello, opened her eyes wide, and looked directly at me. Naturally, my suspicions were aroused. I listened intently to her end of the conversation.
“Yes,” she said, her eyes still on me. “All right, then, we’ll handle it,” she interjected, before listening to the caller for a considerable time.
As she listened, she kept her eyes trained on me, glancing away only when I caught her eye. I was sure she was talking about me, probably with the thug I’d encountered in the stair-well. I was the one to be “handled” and “we” referred to herself and Ahmet. This is what is known as “falling into their lap.” So the lady journalist was involved, and Ahmet was also in on it. It seemed everyone I knew was working for these people.
I needed to formulate a strategic plan—and quickly. I smiled at her, as though I had no idea what was going on. She responded with a tense smile of her own, then hung up the phone.
We went to the kitchen. It was even filthier than the rest of the flat. On a piece of newspaper on the floor were watermelon rinds several days old. It was disgusting.
“Would you mind waiting just a second? I need to tell Ahmet something, so he can continue working while we talk,” she said.
Leaving me on my own in the kitchen, she left, closing the door securely behind her. So that was it; she’d come up with a plan and was briefing Ahmet on their course of action. He didn’t seem particularly strong, but there was no knowing what he’d do if cornered. I panicked.
The huge knife used earlier to carve the watermelon rested on the table. Its steel blade was dull with rust and dried juice. I grabbed it. As a precaution, I carefully kept the hand holding the knife behind my back as I sat at the table.
The door opened, and she came back in. My grip tightened on the concealed knife. She leaned on the table and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket.
“All right, I’m listening. What is it you want?”
She blew smoke in my face. Scrutinizing me carefully, then looking me straight in the eye, she began doing something strange with her eyes, narrowing and widening them. She may have been trying to hypnotize me.
“Did you study hypnosis in Portugal?”
“Yes,” she answered, instantly abandoning the odd winking game.
“You continued after you returned to Turkey?”
“Well, of course I did. It’s not like journalists get paid that much. I mean, some do, but most earn what I do. There’s a lot I do for a bit of spare income. Why do you ask? Are you interested in the subject?”
“You could say that,” I said. “Did you hypnotize Buse? To get her to talk?”
I’d adopted the tactic of being short and sweet. She looked a bit shaken. She took a deep drag on her cigarette. First she glanced at the floor, then the ceiling, and at last right at me. A guttural “Yes” emerged in a cloud of smoke.
“I suspected as much,” I said. “That will be all. Thank you. I really don’t want to disturb you further.”
I knew all I needed to. Buse had been under hypnosis when she revealed everything. There was no reason for me to remain in this filthy, foul-smelling flat. The sooner I got out, the better. I casually eased the knife onto the floor, on top of the newspaper, and got up from the table. She stopped me.
“Is that it?”
“Yes,” I said. “You were expecting more? That’s all I was interested in.”
I was prepared to answer no to whatever her next question was. I wanted out. She laughed softly.
“Come on, let’s not play games,” she said.
“Fine.”
I regretted having given up the knife. Squatting quickly, I retrieved it, then stepped back, leaning against the wall.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“What do
you
want?” she countered. “Leave me out of this. I swear I didn’t do anything. Ahmet’s the one who’s mixed up in it.”
you
want?” she countered. “Leave me out of this. I swear I didn’t do anything. Ahmet’s the one who’s mixed up in it.”
I had no doubt of that last statement, but knew that the lady journalist couldn’t be entirely innocent, either. She looked like she was hiding something.
“What is going on here?”
She was clearly hesitating over whether or not to speak. “Things got out of hand,” she said. “Maybe you can help.”
Help? I was out to save my own ass.
“Listen,” she continued, “Buse asked me to use hypnosis to help kick her drug habit. That’s why she came to me. I later realized how sensitive she was to suggestion. When we’d finished her therapy, I tried again. It was easy, and she began talking about her past, her life. Believe me, I wasn’t expecting anything or plotting anything. All I cared about was an exclusive, a five-page spread, maybe even a front-page headline.”
She sat in the chair I’d vacated, the only one in the kitchen. She stubbed out her cigarette on a dirty plate. Looking at me, she continued:
“Then, like I told you, my story was censored. I was so pissed off. That’s when Ahmet came in. When he saw how upset I was, he comforted me, and I told him everything.”
So that was it. Queer or not, Ahmet was screwing her when he could. So that’s how he maintained his manhood. The business about comforting her was just an excuse.
“He’s the one who had the idea of selling the information. I was angry at the newspaper. It seemed like a reasonable proposition, so I agreed. We tried to get into Buse’s house, but failed. That’s when Ahmet arranged Kayhan.”
“That icy number I ran into on the stairs?” I asked.
“That’s him. He recognized you, too.”
“He’s the one who called, isn’t he?”
“That’s right,” she said, suddenly laughing hysterically. She covered her mouth with a hand, fumbled for another cigarette.
“But you just put one out,” I said, pointing to the butt on the plate.
She shrugged and lit another. Then she once again stubbed out the butt on the plate, which was still smoking.
“Kayhan is a professional thief. There’s not a door he can’t open. But when he arrived to break into Buse’s flat, someone else was already inside. Someone had broken in before us.”
“Bad timing,” I commented.
“We were shocked to hear Buse was dead. When we learned it was murder, we were terrified. All we had in mind was a simple case of blackmail. And maybe theft. That’s all. We were scared, so we gave up on the whole idea.”
“Really?” I said. “Then what was iceman Kayhan doing in Sabiha Hanım’s flat?”
“Ahmet got the address from the mortuary correspondent. He thought we should give it another try, said we had nothing to lose. Maybe the photos and letters were still there. That’s when you and the neighbor found Kayhan.”
“The poor boy doesn’t seem to have much luck.”
What I really meant was that he was a hopeless failure, but I held my tongue.
“You’re right. We’ve all been pretty unlucky.”
She hesitated. She was about to say something else, but couldn’t for some reason. So these two had also been after the photos and letters. We had Süreyya Eronat and his men, Sofya and the Mafia, and a couple of amateur reporters. It was amazing. If Buse were alive, she’d be thrilled.
“Now,” she continued, “they think we have the photos. They’re after us. They nabbed Kayhan, threatened him.”
“So the bandage on his cheek . . .”
“They beat him. He gave them Ahmet’s name, and now Ahmet is beside himself. So am I. What are we supposed to do? We haven’t got a thing. All I have is the tape, but you have the original. Please, try to understand . . .”
“But what can I do?”
“You mean you aren’t working with them?”
We exchanged surprised looks. Now it was my turn to laugh. How could anyone be so stupid? If I’d really been working with them—Hedef Party’s men or the Mafia—what on earth would I be doing in this flat right now? If I was one of them, why would I have needed the chubby-cheeked neighbor to get into the flat? Her husband was right to have left her. What woman could be so filthy and unkempt, live in such a messy flat, and be so stupid to boot?
That she had ever married at all was a miracle.
“I’m in the exact same situation that you are. Someone thinks I have the blackmail materials,” I said.
She gasped.
“Let’s go in and tell Ahmet. We thought you’d come here to threaten us. Kayhan was especially nervous after seeing the men waiting downstairs.”
“Men waiting downstairs?”
It was my turn to gasp.
We joined Ahmet in the living room. As she filled him in, I peered out the window. On the street below waited two men in a dark car. They saw me. I gave a halfhearted wave. It was silly, but it was the only thing that came to mind. At least I didn’t smile.
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